Discovering sensations new and brave
by Daria234
Summary: Literary characters & personas find that sensation play can be quite poetic. Het and slash pairings. Romeo/Mercutio hot wax, Kate/Petruchio feathers, George Sand/Chopin sound vibrations. Literary figures having fun sexy times, don't read if you don't like


Fandom: Literature  
Written for kinkbingo on dreamwidth. Kink: Sensation play  
2 Shakespeare poem-ficlets (Kate/Petruchio feather play and Romeo/Mercutio waxplay)  
and 1 George Sand/Frederic Chopin RPF ficlet.

These two are for a requester, who suggested bossy!bottom! Kate, and waxplay with Mercutio helping Romeo forget Rosaline

Kate's sonnet to Petruchio (Taming of the Shrew)

You do not need to punish me this way;  
A goodly wife am I, I would assert.  
But if you insist upon this kind of play,  
Do me a courtesy and make it hurt.  
The feather's touch is torturously light,  
The wisps do utterly torment my skin;  
A quill should be for ink or else for flight,  
Not to provoke a frenzy deep within.  
A tickle and a gasp with every stroke  
Upon my flesh, but never any more.  
With glee you ignite, and then the flame you stoke,  
But cruelly never let the fire roar.  
Fine, have your fun, and play your feathered game.  
What you give now, next time receive the same.

* * *

Mercutio (blank verse):  
The fire of your love for Rosaline  
Will dim like wicks that have run out of wax,  
A useless flaccid thing, it will hang limp  
As if the thought of her doused you with ice.  
But do not fear; that flick'ring flame of yours  
Will still burn hot, but not for Rosaline.  
Even now, as you arch up, and are pushed down  
By my own hands, I notice that you call  
Out not for any girl called Rosaline,  
The only name gasped by your lips is mine.  
Your moans are not for love forlornly lost,  
Instead these sweet submissive sounds are saved  
For me, and likewise savored by my ears,  
Just as my eyes do cherish that bright gleam,  
That startled flutter of your dark-lashed eyes,  
When heat descends onto your smooth, bared skin.  
A candle burns for you, here in my hand,  
It drips its warm desire on your flesh,  
It streaks its wax across your muscled chest,  
It pools its melted heat atop your thighs,  
Spilling its excess wherever it may.  
You smile as it bites you with its heat,  
As rivulets of wax traverse your skin  
And leave a signature of pleasured pain  
Until all other lovers you forget,  
And you remember nothing now except  
The splatter of delicious heat that falls  
To your impatient body from my hand,  
A seal upon the letter of our bond,  
A red wax emblem stamped with both our lips:  
With your lips' pleading, and with my lips' kiss.

* * *

And this is a long-drabble based on characters from the film Impromptu, i.e., about George Sand and Frederic Chopin.

When they are alone, she drapes herself onto his piano; she does it fearlessly, as if there were nothing more natural in the world, as if no one has ever apologized for being swept away by their passions. He plays, and though he imagines usually that he plays for himself, for the song itself, there is no denying it now: on these occasions, he plays for her. He chooses pieces that evoke stormswept landscapes or love affairs gone terribly wrong. He moves things around, plays an octave lower than is right, so he can send the headier vibrations through his instrument. She leans tight against the smooth planes of the piano, pressing closer to that sound, feeling every note, every chord, resonate through, around, within her body. She imagines her flesh is humming, trembling like a plucked string inside the bowels of the piano, and in the flights of her imagination, she is an instrument playing a song that has never been heard, a song too truthful to reveal itself until the chaos of the current age. She is the instrument, and the instrument is his hands, his fingers across the keys, and soon the brilliance of these hands is part of her, their flurry of movement is not just the cause but the very expression of her bliss. She feels his music, and her mind wonders at this thing, this amazing thing: that a person can _feel_, that feeling might be precisely what makes one a person and not a thing. She feels, and she wonders if words will ever expose the truth of what it means to feel, to live a life of feeling, and she imagines a stack of sheets, a heap of paper taller than herself, with all the words she will use to try and speak a single, true _feeling_.


End file.
